Reckless Cruel Heirs

by Olivia Wildenstein

  “Stop fidgeting, Trifecta. I’m trying to help you, not seduce you.”

  His words made me grow hot all over. Even though I still wanted to put a mile between our bodies, I stopped fighting him.

  “I didn’t think you were seducing me,” I grumbled. “I just don’t like to be coddled.”

  A smile knocked into his lips. “I thought princesses loved to be coddled.”

  “You know nothing about princesses.”

  “How about you teach me about what it’s like to grow up with a legion of faerie guards at your disposal and a brigade of servants at your beck and call?”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  His smile collapsed, and he scratched a spot behind his ear. “No, Amara. I really am curious.”

  His edginess, combined with the use of my first name, made me relent. “It’s overwhelming. Everyone’s always judging you, evaluating your needs, jumping to attention when you enter a room. Not to mention the carousel of guards doesn’t give me much time to build relationships with any of them.”

  His brows dipped. “Guards are appointed to protect you, not to chat with you.”

  “I got that.”

  After a beat, he ventured, “It can’t be all bad, though.”

  “No. But it’s not . . . it’s not always easy to set the right example. To be the right example. I spent most of my childhood dreaming I didn’t have so many powers, because power gets you attention, and sometimes”—I peered up at him—“denigrating nicknames.”

  An octagonal metal stop sign groaned and bowed under his boots. “Sometimes nicknames are born of jealousy.”

  “You’re jealous of me?”

  He peered down at me through his dark auburn lashes. “Who isn’t? You have everything. You’re even pretty. You could’ve at least been born with some facial warts or a weak chin.”

  I blinked at him. “You think I’m pretty?”

  His forehead crinkled as though my question were causing him physical pain. “On the outside.”

  If both my hands hadn’t been immobilized, I would’ve smacked him. “You’re such an ass.”

  His eyes blazed greener. “I’m more than just a great body part.”

  I shook my head as we trampled over the station sign, the one printed with the town’s name. It felt like we’d arrived here a week ago, and yet it couldn’t have been more than a day since we got sucked through the portal. Maybe even less than a day.

  “What does my grandfather have on your father?” Remo asked suddenly.

  His question brought me to a stop, which in turn brought him to a stop. I released his hand, and he didn’t protest because we’d reached the platform where my risk of nosediving was minimal. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s no way your father would’ve agreed to marry his only child off to the grandson of a man he barely tolerates if he has nothing to gain from the union.”

  I slid my bottom lip between my teeth. “I can’t discuss it.”

  His stance shifted, his feet settling farther apart and his knees locking, and then he crossed his arms. “Why?”

  “Because . . .” Ugh. How was I supposed to tell someone who’d saved my behind more than once that I didn’t fully trust him?

  “Because?”

  I looked into the mossy depths of his eyes. “If I tell you, and we get out of here, and you use this against me—”

  “I won’t.”

  “How do I know you won’t?”

  “Because I give you my word.”

  “And I’m just supposed to trust your word?”

  He drew his shoulders back. “You still don’t trust me.”

  I was beginning to, but did I trust him enough? I fingered my sling, the weight of his attention making me extraordinarily uncomfortable. I steeled my spine and stopped twitching. “Do you trust me?”

  His mouth flattened. “You’re right. We haven’t gotten there, have we?”

  Would we ever get there, though? I scanned the crater filled with debris ringed with steep mountains. How many cells and how many days would it take to repair generations of distrust? Could it even be repaired? As the firm knot of his arms slackened, and he pivoted toward the train, I realized that Remo and I, we had nothing to repair because we’d never had anything to break in the first place. What we did have was the power to build something new.

  Sighing, I decided to lay the groundwork. “Iba’s convinced Gregor’s harboring Kingston and grooming him for a second coup.”

  Remo’s eyebrows almost kissed. “Kingston was executed four years ago.”

  The pressure on my heart eased. Even though I hadn’t said this to test Remo’s knowledge or affiliation, I was glad to find him perplexed by the news. If he hadn’t been . . . Skies, I didn’t want to think about the alternative. It was one thing to be related to a monster; it was another to be cavorting with one.

  “Apparently, he wasn’t executed.”

  “It was public.”

  “It was televised,” I corrected.

  “Are you saying it was staged?”

  I waited for the information to settle.

  “So, what? Your father thought that binding our essences would make my grandfather confess to some nefarious plan?”

  “No. He thought it would keep him happy and forget about his nefarious plan.” The episode of Gregor and Remo standing by my crib sprinted into my mind. “Getting his own flesh and blood on the throne beats getting a puppet there.”

  Remo lifted his hand to the back of his neck and kneaded it as though our conversation had given him a kink. “But you weren’t going to go through with it.”

  Weren’t? Did he think I’d somehow changed my mind? Instead of pointing out that I still wasn’t going to, I said, “I’ll be faithful to you and to our union as long as it takes to find out Kingston’s whereabouts.”

  He snapped his hand off his neck. “This is so fucked up.”

  “Which part? The coup? The prison? Our betrothal? This conversation?”

  “All of it!” He ran his hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “Every fucking part of it.”

  For a long moment, the only sound was the breeze combing through the chunks of metal, glass, and brick.

  He released his hair, his fist banging against his thigh. “I work with my grandfather. If he was training someone, I’d know.”

  “I understand your need to defend him, Remo. I understand that you’ll always want and probably choose to believe your family over mine, but know that my father isn’t alone in thinking this way.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I suppose your mother thinks this, too.”

  “I wasn’t talking about my mother. I was talking about someone who isn’t related to my family.”

  “Who?” His voice rang out over the miles of flattened houses. “Who else thinks this way?”

  Was I betraying my father’s trust by sharing this information with Remo or was I helping our cause? What if we got out of here, and Remo went to his grandfather with all this knowledge—

  “Amara? Who. Else?”

  “Silas.” His name fled my lips like an arrow springing off a bowstring.

  Remo’s mask of anger transformed into one of incredulity—his eyes grew wide and his mouth parted and rounded. The vein underneath his birthmark seemed to pump harder, fluttering the stained skin. I watched how he’d react next. It could go one of two ways: either the weight of his stepfather’s allegiance would shift Remo’s loyalty or he’d call me a liar.

  The white light falling from the sky licked his mussed locks, making his head look ablaze. He kicked a piece of siding, which flipped before crashing down on the tracks, barely visible underneath all the wreckage. For the longest time, he stood stock-still and stared at the train.

  The breeze caught in my hair and blew pieces of it in my eyes. I dragged my black locks away and tucked them behind my ears, but they slipped free. I neither turned nor took cover in the train. I waited, not wanting to miss the moment Remo picked
his camp.

  Finally, it happened. He looked toward me, and his eyes, although not the fiery shade of his hair, seared right into mine. “If Kingston’s alive . . .” His voice was scratchy. “If he’s alive, I’ll find him.”

  I tipped my head to the side. “And what will you do once you find him?”

  He pursed his lips before parting them once more. “I’ll kill him.”

  I’d crept out onto a fragile limb. Instead of splintering, it had supported me. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, Amara. I’m not doing this for you; I’m doing this because Kingston is a halfwit, and as much as I have trouble with your family on a personal level, your father is good king.”

  “Whether you want it or not, if you eliminate Kingston, you’ll get my gratitude.” My words did nothing to slacken his rigid stance or to calm the throbbing at his temples. “To think you could’ve milked this situation and didn’t.”

  One of his eyebrows jolted. “How could I have milked this situation?”

  “I would’ve paid a high price to protect my father. Perhaps even struck a gajoï or met you by the Cauldron a second time.” My pulse picked up speed as I wondered what in Neverra had possessed me to add that last part. I could’ve stopped at the bargain. Why did I have to go and bring up marriage? Remo wasn’t the devil I’d believed him to be, but he was also not the man I’d pictured at my side forever.

  His eyebrow lowered. “A favor from you would have been nice, but I’ll leave your hand to someone who deserves it.”

  My jaw slackened.

  He chucked me under the chin. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m not completely ill-intentioned.”

  He wasn’t even a little ill-intentioned. I didn’t know what to do with this new Remo. How to act around him. “What’s your ultimate ambition, Remo? Wariff or draca?”

  “Why do you assume my aspirations are political?”

  I frowned.

  “Maybe I’ll uphold my family legacy and open a bakery.”

  “A bakery?”

  His mouth curved into that signature half-smirk of his. “You can’t see it?”

  “Um. No. I mean, why not? I just . . . um.”

  “Peach pie can become the signature dish.”

  My jaw must’ve come completely unhinged, because the look that crossed Remo’s face was wickedly bright.

  “Relax. I’m just teasing you, Trifecta. I much prefer strategizing over baking.” His teeth flashed and so did his eyes.

  “But you like to bake?”

  “Surprisingly, I do.”

  “Who are you, and what did you do with Remo Farrow?”

  He grinned a little wider, then inclined his head toward the magical vessel. “Come on. We’ve got a train to catch.” He started to turn but must’ve noticed I’d grown too stiff to move, because he grabbed my limp hand and all but dragged me into the glossy carriage.

  “If you ever bake me a pie,” I said, as he punched the two buttons, and the train began to rattle, “I’ll unfriend you.”

  He leaned back against the console, closing his fingers around the edge and crossing his legs at the ankles. “Unfriending me implies you’ve friended me. Are we friends, Amara Wood?”

  I studied him from my lower vantage point. I’d taken the precaution of sitting so as not to be tossed around. “Wouldn’t that be an unexpected twist in your story? The hero and the villain becoming tight . . .”

  “I draw the line at getting matching tattoos.”

  The smile, which had appeared on his lips earlier, didn’t grow in size but in intensity. Slowly, it smoothed his roughened edges and dispelled the shadows from his face, and like mortar sealed the first brick to the foundation I’d lain out.

  21

  Neverra

  Relief swept from my spine into my furthest extremities when we arrived inside the next world. “It’s over,” I murmured.

  “What’s over?”

  “Our imprisonment. We’re obviously home.” The portals gleamed like miniature ponds beside the forest of calimbors whose crowns were drenched in a ribbon of mist so thick it obstructed the lavender sky.

  “Don’t you think there’d be more people if we were home? And what about the Pink Sea? I don’t see it. Do you?”

  I whirled around to find that Remo was right, even though he hadn’t needed to be so snarky about it. There was no pink stretch of water; only tall cliffs frosted with mist. Disappointment flooded me, penetrating to my very marrow, washing away any lingering relief. “Cruel. So cruel.” I didn’t even want to leave the platform.

  Remo hopped off the floating platform, which seemed to be woven from volitor fronds. He started walking but then backpedaled toward me and raised his arms to help me down.

  “I’m not going.”

  He frowned.

  “What’s the point? A calimbor will surely squash us, because something shitty’s bound to happen. It’ll probably flatten a third of our bodies but spare our skulls, because what would be the fun in ending us too quickly?”

  “No calimbor will fall over us, prinsisa.”

  I still didn’t feel like jumping down and trotting around this poor replica.

  “Maybe this is the cell in which we meet others.”

  I looked down at him, totally unconvinced.

  “It seems hospitable enough.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “No, it doesn’t.” I realized then that the trees were lined up just like the houses had been in the last worlds, all tidy and symmetrical.

  He didn’t lower his arms. “We’re partners.”

  “The villain wants to sit this one out.”

  “Fine.” His arms began to drop. “Stay up there. If I die again . . .” He let his voice drift off.

  “I promise not to board Train Hell until you resurrect.”

  “What if I don’t resurrect?”

  Ugh. I couldn’t believe Remo was resorting to guilt tripping. He must’ve sensed me softening, because his arms arced back up. Even though I really wanted to get down on my own, I would probably fall face first at his boots. I chose the lesser of two mortifications, sat, then sprang toward him.

  He caught me. “Can’t believe you trusted me to catch you,” he said as he unwrapped his fingers from my waist.

  I whipped my gaze to his eyes, trying to surmise if he would’ve tricked me into a false sense of security. “You wouldn’t have dared . . .”

  “Are you sure? I’m a pretty daring person.”

  In truth, I wasn’t sure. Allying ourselves to face this dimension didn’t automatically make us best friends.

  The green in his irises dimmed. “I wouldn’t have dropped you, Trifecta,” he grumbled before carving a path through the soft moss, leaving me to stare at his straight back.

  “I’m sorry, Remo, but it’s going to take a little time for my mind to accept you’re not Gregor’s cruel heir who wants nothing more than to see me fail and fall.”

  He stopped walking but didn’t turn around, his fingers balling into fists at his sides.

  I made my way toward where he stood and circled his rigid body. “In real Neverra, you wouldn’t have caught me.”

  “I would’ve caught you.”

  “Please. We were never friends, or allies, or partners.” I cocked my head to the side. “Plus, we didn’t only have each other; we had options. Right now, I’m your only option, so embarrassing me or hurting me wouldn’t be wise. Especially considering you prefer bad company over no company.”

  “Can you let that go already? I only said it to piss you off.”

  My head jerked a little. “Why did you want to piss me off?”

  He shoved his hand through his mussed red hair. “I don’t know. Maybe because that’s what we’re best at. Pissing each other off.”

  My eyes grew wider; his did the exact opposite. “How have I ever pissed you off? I avoid you whenever I can. I rarely ever address you unless I have to.”

  His nostrils flared. “Just drop it, all right? And try not to hum or si
ng, so that, if there is anyone else around, we can spot them first.”

  “I wasn’t going to sing,” I muttered. “When was the last time I sang anyway?”

  “When you were getting dressed back at the inn.”

  “Oh right. When you suspected I was dead and just had to check.”

  He kept walking, kept glowering. Not at me, even though I had no doubt he was visualizing my face on each patch of moss he stomped.

  I picked up my pace; he accelerated. Bagwa.

  We walked like that, me lagging behind, until we reached the Gorge of Portals. He raised his arm to touch the lowest one. When his fingers cut right through it as though it were no more substantial than a cloud, my disenchantment with this bogus Neverra swelled. He raked his hand through a couple more illusory doors before abandoning his quest to uncover a real one. Where would it have led us anyway? Nowhere good, that was for sure.

  Something glinted in the distance. I squinted trying to make out what it could be, but then a rattling sound I knew oh-so-well had my gaze dropping to my feet, to the tiny, quill-coated bodies writhing between them.

  “Aw, crap,” I heard Remo mutter.

  Was he muttering because I’d just stepped on a nest of freshly-hatched mikos, or were some reptiles slithering around his boots, too? One of the snakes picked up its flat head and hissed at me, its forked purple tongue shooting out. Thankfully, it was a juvenile. Since mikos’ tongues were as long as their bodies, an adult’s would have reached me.

  “How did you not see them, Trifecta?”

  Now is so not the time to pick a fight. “Maybe because they’re the exact same shade as the moss instead of black like in Neverra,” I snapped, as a larger mikos slithered between my boots.

  Since their tails resembled their heads to confuse their enemies, I watched for a hint of the tongue they never fully reeled in. Sure enough, it came at me, and I jolted backward, my boot rolling over a body. The creature hissed, then swiped the shell of my ear. Yelping, I whirled around and jumped, no longer worried about squashing the snakes, and man did I squash some. They were proliferating like bacteria, rising from the very soil.